


time goes by so slowly (and time can do so much)

by lacheses



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Gen, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacheses/pseuds/lacheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's new apartment is quiet and peaceful. It's just got one little problem - it's haunted. </p><p>The Stucky Ghost AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time goes by so slowly (and time can do so much)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers, which was featured in the movie 'Ghost'. But that's about as far as the similarities go. 
> 
> There are graphic depictions of gun violence near the end of the story.

.

“Mr. Barnes,” The realtor’s voice is sugar sweet. “This is truly a wonderful investment you’ve made. This place has such _spirit_!”

Bucky nods, waiting for her to hand over the keys to his apartment. “We just have a little bit of paperwork left, but that won’t take too long,” She smiles again, stares at him a beat too long. Bucky wonders if he should smile back, if that’s what people do with annoying real estate agents.

Instead, he just stares at her impeccable blazer, edges stiff and precise. It must be new. She drops the keys into his palm and turns on her heel, all the while waving him goodbye.

Bucky turns the key, careful not to brush against the peeling paint on the front door, nevertheless getting white flakes stuck on his sweater. He drops his bag on the bare floor, exhausted.

He should open up the sleeping bag, try to dust off the ancient coffee table. The realtor told him there was a bed somewhere, pillows too. The walls are marked with little holes, as if someone had stuck dozens of thumb pins up. The wallpaper is faded, antiquated flowers lined up in the same, endless pattern.

Although the bed is a mere few steps away, Bucky finds himself curled up on the floor, clutching his bag. He didn’t want the bed anyway. It would’ve been too soft, like a marshmallow. He would’ve sunk right down through the floor.

.

Mornings seem quieter in this apartment, which Bucky is immensely grateful for. Traffic is a gentle hum through the window, and the old-fashioned radiator doesn’t seem to make much noise when cranked up. Steam curls around his ears in the tiny shower, and Bucky takes the time to enjoy the warm water, the soapy scent permeating the whole washroom. The water pinks his skin, and Bucky steps out, towel wrapped around his waist. Although he knows a simple wash shouldn’t affect him this much, it’s difficult not to enjoy the feeling of being scrubbed clean. The brand on the back of his neck is still tender from the hot water. He dresses quickly, opting for comfort rather than style. It’s not like anyone else will see him.

Stepping into the kitchen, Bucky sips tea, contemplating the day’s schedule. He could go for a run, but the old city is cluttered with abandoned buildings. It would be tough to find a clear trail to follow. Sam’s office at the VA was a good forty minutes away, and only if he’s lucky enough to catch an empty train at the station.

Bucky slips into a pair of pink sandals, bought on a whim during his reintroduction to bargain bins. Sam had jokingly bought them, saying they’d look good with his man-purse (a teary ‘welcome home’ gift from his mother, something Bucky didn’t have the heart to discard). Although he hadn’t found a use for his purse yet, it sits rather neatly on his shelf, next to his dog tags and old uniform.

Glancing at his old sneakers, he decides to take that run, donning his old sneakers and sweatpants. He finds a winding trail through the abandoned buildings, and one gravel path takes him straight to the river. After an hour, he makes the decision to head on home.

Back in his apartment, Bucky nearly trips over a book on the floor. _A Simple Manual for the Cybernetic American_ stares back at him accusingly. Had he left it open before he left? Bucky can’t recall ever pulling the text from his duffel bag, but he places it gently on a bare shelf, dusting off the front cover.

It had been Clint’s cheeky gift to him when he’d just been discharged, still disoriented and unable to retain half his memory. Although it was a joke, Bucky read the book cover to cover, and (he would never tell Clint) actually noted down some of the tips for maintaining his arm on a separate notepad.

Strange, that he would decide to read it now, of all times. His arm didn’t give him that much trouble, and the book had become a fond memory rather than a necessity. But he still liked to read it from time to time, so he must have done exactly that last night. Maybe he’d forgotten it in the morning.

Bucky toes off his sandals, staring at his new home. The kitchen needed a good scrubbing, and the bedroom was severely lacking in curtains or even a lamp.

Forgetting about the book, he brushes his hands on his sweatpants. There was work to be done.

.

Settling into the apartment becomes terribly easy. Bucky spends his days cleaning, visiting Sam at the VA, taking runs and talking to his physiotherapist – retaining the strength in his shoulders and continually checking for any infections. After helping the elderly couple in 76A with their groceries, he checks in to the local clinic that specializes in veteran health. Sam had found it for him.

His physiotherapist greets him with the same, tired smile. To her, his left arm is a constant headache.

“The amputation was shoddy work, James. It’s a miracle you’ve not been infected, or worse,”

He cringes at the ‘or worse’. Losing the arm was bad enough, but to have constant vigilance for infections or diseases, which meant covering his whole left arm with a sort of plastic tarp in the shower, became tiresome. Although hollow on the inside, it had been years since he ever used his arm for its true purposes, and therefore he always ran the risk of infection. He couldn’t even wash his hands without having to take it apart from the wrist and check for water damage. His doctor had attempted everything, and she’d nearly driven herself mad trying to help him. When he had refused to simply take off the prosthetic, she’d referred him to a physiotherapist and demanded weekly medical checkups.

On top of that, the technician working on his arm was some idiot from Stark Industries, unable to keep his mouth shut as he tinkered away on his arm.  

“You know Doc, it’s just so _weird_. Everyone and their mother knows you can’t just cauterize an arm wound and then leave it there. I gotta ask, who did this? ”

 Bucky’s doctor gritted her teeth, refusing to oblige the tech. “May I remind you that you’re here to work,”

“I know, it’s just that this arm doesn’t seem like it’s made here. Kind of giving me a Soviet vibe,”

Bucky wonders what tipped him off to this fact, the faded red star on the bicep, or the illegal steel alloy his arm had been comprised of. Either way, he feels his temper flare at the technician’s crass tone.

“I don’t know who did this. I guess I never thought to ask, being unconscious in that basement by Volgograd,” The technician’s mouth hangs open, and Bucky continues.

“Just never crossed my mind,” He bares his teeth, prompting the technician to sheepishly get back to work. There isn’t a word out of him for the next hour. His doctor sends him a bemused smile, trying and failing to admonish him. They’d both needed the silence.

After the technician leaves, the doctor hands him a couple of painkillers, reminding him to call her if the scar tissue begins to look unusual. Bucky glances at the raised skin, ridged sporadically around his shoulder, baby pink against his tanned shoulder. It looks out of place, tracing tendrils of his old wounds half-heartedly. His arm will never heal, not completely.

He slips off the examination table, waving his goodbyes to the doctor. As he leaves the clinic, he sends off a quick text to Sam, confirming their plans to grab some burgers for lunch. Suddenly, he realizes that he’s forgotten his wallet back in the apartment. He sets off on a quick jog back.

Entering the apartment, he searches his room for his wallet. It ends up being under his pillow, a cautionary habit he’d never grown out of. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he nearly trips on his duffle bag. His duffle bag, which had been safely stored inside the linen closet for weeks now, is carelessly thrown across the hallway floor. Unzipped, the contents of his bag slip out, including his books and journal.

 _Tap._ On his left, then. Vaguely, he can make out a noise – as if someone had struck the wood of a door with their fingers.

Instantly, he is on high alert. Grabbing a baseball bat, he holds it tight, prowling through the hallway. He follows the trail of strewn books as they lead him to the washroom. A faint tapping seems to be coming from inside, rhythmic and unending. The temperature plummets instantly, raising goosebumps on his bare arms. The chill washes over him, locking his muscles tight. He moves forward through sheer will, following the incessant noise.

Panic winds through him, knotting painfully in his stomach. He clenches his jaw, trying not to vomit in fear.

Chest heaving, Bucky tries to even out his breathing. His heart is hammering in his ears, and he can only manage shallow gasps as he holds out an arm, reaching for the doorknob. He grips the brass knob, twisting fast. He yanks the door open, hard, poised with his bat. There is –

Nothing.

The washroom is empty, and the tapping noise disappears as quickly as it came. Bucky lets out a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

His body is still keyed up, waiting for a threat that doesn’t exist. He breathes in through his nose, unclenching his fists and placing the bat against the wall. Shoving his wallet into his pocket, he locks the apartment door behind him, already late for lunch with Sam.

.

 “Barnes, you alright?”

Sam snaps his fingers in front of Bucky’s face, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Yeah,” Bucky runs a hand through his hair, smiling apologetically. “I’m fine. Just spaced out for a bit,”

Sam’s face looks too concerned, so Bucky shoves a couple of fries into his mouth and tries to get the conversation back on track.

“What were we talking about?”

Sam picks the last fry from his basket. “I was asking why you were late, man,”

“Oh, I forgot my wallet,”

“Took you nearly an hour to find a wallet?”

“The train was late”

“I thought you didn’t take the train anymore,”

“I do now,”

Bucky can’t bring himself to meet Sam’s eyes. The diner was comfortably full, everyone else’s chatter filling the space between them. He stares down at his coffee, dumping in packet after packet of sugar and creamer.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Bucky,”

He bites his lip, wondering if he should divulge whatever had happened in his apartment. Sam’s concern, as well-meaning and helpful it was, could become a vice around his neck. His empathy could sound like pity so quick, that it often left Bucky reeling with the paranoia that someone, once again, was controlling him. Sam had promised to never dole out therapy, or to coddle him. And he didn’t. Yet, in the two years that Bucky had returned from the army, he couldn’t bring himself to fully trust one of his few friends. It was a steel wall between them, a barrier he refused to cross.

But now, looking back, the opened duffel bag had terrified him. It had gripped his worst fears and made them come true. He could not imagine giving up his home, his point of safety in an otherwise uncomfortable world, because of it.

So he finds himself spilling the beans. “I think someone was in my apartment,”

Sam’s expression doesn’t change. His brow remains furrowed in concern, yet he reaches for his cellphone.

“You see who did it?”

Bucky shook his head, choosing not to tell Sam about the tapping noise he’d also heard. “But, my bag. My duffel bag, full of my books and stuff. It was opened up, like someone unzipped it and threw it across the hall,”

“They steal anything?”

He shakes his head again. “Everything was still there. It was like they were, I don’t know, looking? Like they wanted to figure something out?”

“Trying to figure _you_ out?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. Sam continues, unperturbed. “You’re talking about that bag with the blue stripes, right? The one you carried around after your first tour?”

“Yeah,”

“Well, I remember you used to put all your stuff in it. A book you liked, a shirt you used to wear, even that dumbass camera from high school. You stuffed that bag full of shit, and when it got full, you stuck it under your bed,”

“It’s in the linen closet now,”

Sam huffed. “Whatever,”

“So, you think somebody’s spying on me?”

“Could be,”

Sam stirs his coffee. “You think it’s -?”

“No,”

“I’m just saying, Barnes, that it’s been two years. Maybe they’re not as done with as you thought,”

“There’s no way,” The last thing Bucky needed was for Hydra to slip back into his life again. “I made sure of that,”

Sam mulls it over, thinking of other possibilities. “Did you report it to the police?”

“Nope,”

“Bucky, why not?

“I can handle this myself,”

Sam runs a hand over his head, exhaling in frustration. “That’s what fucked you up last time, Barnes,”

Bucky doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. Regardless of Sam’s warnings, he _could_ handle himself against a home invader.

All he needed was a bigger bat.

. 

Just a few weeks after moving in, Bucky hears a scratching noise outside his door. Opening the door leads to a rough tongue on his cheek. Clint’s mutt barrels him over, four paws pressing down square on his stomach. Obliging the big mutt, he scratches between his ears, not bothering to get up from his sprawl on the floor. He hears Clint racing up the stairs, already calling out for his furry friend.

“Lucky? Lucky? Oh, Lucky, _no_!”

Clint shakes his head, prying the dog off him. “I’m real sorry about that, Bucky. I’ve still gotta train this boy. Isn’t that right?”

“It’s alright, Clint,”

Bucky picks off the tawny hairs the dog’s left behind. He lets Clint and Lucky into his new home. Clint whistles as he surveys the living room, eyebrows raised high.

“You really cleaned this place up, huh?”

“Yeah,”

“Well,” Clint takes a big, exaggerated step towards the couch. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t christen the place. How about we start with a housewarming – maybe right here, on the couch. Crack open a few beers, order some pizza. Bring a party atmosphere here,”

“Party atmosphere,” he says dryly. “From you?”

Clint presses a hand to his chest, mock outraged. “Who else?”

He does end up giving in, ordering pizza and browsing through Netflix with Clint. As always, he can’t find anything interesting to watch. Lucky curls around Clint’s lap, occasionally tilting his head for a scratch behind the ears, to which Bucky obliges.

“You know what we should do?”

“What?”

“Have a horror movie marathon. That’ll get us into the mood for Halloween,”

“Clint,” Bucky sighs, setting his slice of cheese pizza on his plate. “Halloween is a month away,”

“Never too early,” He rolls his eyes. A knock at his door startles both of them, and he rises from the couch to see who’s there. Through the peephole he can see a purple jacket, impatiently tapping its foot.

“Oh, I bet it’s Kate. I told her to come down after she took Lucky to the vet,”

“Kate?”

“Yeah, she’s like my dog walker or whatever. She’s cool, Bucky,”

Bucky pauses, uncertain. He doesn’t know if inviting strangers to his home is a good idea, and yet he doesn’t want to appear rude in front of the new guest. Reluctantly, he opens the door. Lucky springs up from the couch, wagging his tail excitedly as Kate walks in.

As it turns out, Kate ends up being perfectly fine, if a little too comfortable in his home. She doesn’t apologize for coming in unannounced, instead leaping over the couch to swipe a slice from Clint’s hand. He finds himself warming up to her brash, quirky nature.

“No offense, but why would a military guy like you settle for a dump like this? Don’t you get a big fat cheque from the government?”

Bucky shrugs. His monthly paycheque wasn’t meager, but he never managed to spend it all.

“I like it here. It’s quiet,”

Kate chews on her pizza, seemingly understanding his desire for silence. Lucky lays his head on her lap, blinking sleepily. For once, Clint is quiet, instead wiping the pizza sauce from his mouth. A hush settles over the three of them, the television intermittently slipping into static.

“Whoa,” Kate sits up, pointing at the fuzzy screen. “What is that?”

Bucky shrugs. “It happens sometimes,”

“I’m not surprised,” Clint slouches even further. “Given the location and all,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clint gives a long-suffering sigh, resting his arm behind his neck.

 “Dude, you know this place is haunted, right?”

He turns to face Clint, who’s now inhaling his slice of pizza. “What?”

“Haunted, man!” The pizza hangs precariously from Clint’s hand, the gooey cheese slipping further down the slice.

“Yeah,” Kate chimes in. “Some guy in the forties died here, and _no one_ even found out till, like, ten days later!”

Clint nods seriously, wiping the tomato sauce from his mouth. “It’s pretty creepy, dude,”

“It’s pretty sad!” Kate pretends to wipe away a tear with Lucky’s paw. “Imagine dying and not even a single person checking up on you for more than a week,”

Bucky swallows, a lump stuck in his throat. A death in his apartment, of course his realtor wouldn’t tell him. The opened bag, his books strewn about after a long day. It had to be-

No. It was ridiculous. Kate and Clint had a _Ghostbusters_ marathon last week, and their heads were full of crazy ideas. He tries to quell the sudden rage that overcomes him, upon the insinuation that his home – the only place he’d felt safe in years – could be somehow subpar. He scratches Lucky behind the ears, tamping down his irritation. They didn’t mean any harm.

“I’m taking him for a walk,” he announces, looping the leash around the dog’s neck. Kate waves him away, engrossed in the newest infomercial on the screen.

Outside, the evening chill settles around him. Bucky pulls his collar up to his jaw, keeps Lucky close by. They meander through the old city, Lucky tugging him in whichever direction he wills. The streets look desolate, swathed in the dim yellow of the lamps. A newspaper floats by, grimy with dirt.

He hears her first. The distant clacking of heels, growing louder with each step. He stares into the yellow blur until the shape becomes clear. A woman, cutting an imposing figure, dressed in a sharp pencil skirt and blouse, walks up to him. Everything about her is hazy, like she’s fading in and out of existence. Soft brown curls are pinned to her head, and small wisps that escape curl around her neck. He focuses on her mouth, sharply painted in red, and her clean white teeth. He wants to touch her, but he feels stuck in one spot, transfixed on her mouth.

Her full lips are moving. Fine wrinkles around her mouth shift as she speaks.

“Steve,” A single syllable, sharp. “Have you seen Steve?”

Bucky furrows his brow. “Who - ?”

“I’m looking for Steve,”

The red on her lips starts to drip, the waxy lipstick trailing down her chin. She asks again, the lipstick in her teeth now, staining the perfect white. Urgency colours her tone, and Bucky tries to meet her gaze. But she’s looking past him, over his shoulder.

“Tell Steve that Peggy asked to see him,” she commands, and he dumbly nods. Something catches her eye, and she pitches forward. He tries to pull away, to give her room, but she just passes through him. Effortless, as if he never existed.

He turns around, hoping to catch one more glimpse of her, until a soft whine breaks the spell. Lucky circles around him, nudging his head against his legs, whining softly.

“Bucky!” Someone shouts behind him, and he turns to see Kate and Clint running towards him. Bucky watches them get closer, tightening his grip on Lucky’s leash.

Kate reaches first, panting, her hands on her thighs. “Dude, where were you?”

Clint catches up. “Check your phone, man,” He sounds cross, which is odd. Clint has never been angry with him before.

Bucky pulls out his phone, scrolling through the nineteen missed calls and text messages from Clint.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, still perplexed. He’d only been out for a while.

“Sorry?” Clint throws his hands up into the air. “You just up and disappear for an hour, and you’re _sorry_?”

“An hour?”

“Yeah,” Kate crosses her arms in front of her chest. “We tried calling you, but that obviously didn’t work. Finally, we got real scared, started looking for you in the street,”

“I didn’t realize, I’m -”

Clint interrupts him, stepping closer to glare at him. “Bucky, where the hell did you go? This place is seven blocks away from your apartment!”

Bucky bites his lip. “I got sidetracked,”

“Yeah?” Clint clenches his jaw. “Doing what?”

“There was this woman,” Bucky starts, trying to explain his encounter with her. “She asked me something and - I don’t know. She looked like she needed help,”

“A hooker?”

“No!”

“Then who? ‘Cause quite frankly, Bucky, what random woman could’ve compelled you to ignore my calls, wander away from your apartment, and space out for an hour? I don’t see any woman here besides Kate for miles!”

“I don’t know!” Frustration makes his words sound harsh and unforgiving. “I don’t know who she was, alright?”

Clint exhales loudly, pressing a finger to his temple. Kate takes Lucky’s leash, leading him back to the apartment. As soon as Kate is out of sight, Clint starts to speak again.

“You need to get it together, Bucky. You can’t pull this kind of shit again, you hear me?”

“I didn’t pull anything,”

“Bucky,” Clint sighed again, and his voice became soft with pity. “You need some damn help. When was the last time you talked to a therapist? A real one, not just the self-help shit you found in Sam’s basement,”

He shook his head. “Don’t start that with me, Clint. I’m fine,”

“Are you?”

“Yes!” He starts walking away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Buck, I’m your friend. I only want to help you!”

Bucky whirls around, jabbing a finger in Clint’s chest. Distantly, he realizes that he’s being overdramatic, that Clint really is here to help. Yet the rage overtakes him, overtakes everything.

“You can help me by staying out of my fucking business, Clint. I mean it,”

He leaves Clint there, in the soft amber bath of the streetlights, his fogged up breath trailing behind him.

.

That night, sleep eludes him. Bucky paces in the kitchen, wondering if it’s too late to call Clint and apologize. He glances at the microwave clock, bright green in the otherwise dark apartment. Outside, the pitter-patter of the rain echoes on the roof. Two floors down, Ms. Schmidt must be tottering about, blind as a bat. He’d volunteered to fix the tears in her drain pipe. They must be bothering her.

 _3:03_ in the morning, it reads. No one else is awake. Clumsily, Bucky gropes in the dark for the tin of sugar, unable to stomach the bitter coffee he’s made for himself. A loud clatter startles him, and Bucky spills the sugar all over the floor. Fumbling for the light, Bucky pushes himself up, waiting for the tired bulb to flicker back into life.

And there, in the mess of brown sugar, is an unmistakable scrawl.

**GET OUT**

Bucky steps back, heart hammering wildly in his chest. There was no mistake. Someone had written in the sugar while the lights were off.

Stupidly, he looks around. The windows are closed and the doors are locked.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, hating how his voice shakes. Outside, he can hear thunder rolling. Lightning flashes bright against linoleum, and for a split second, Bucky sees the outline of a man in front of him. He stumbles back, gripping the counter to steel himself. Another lightning flash, and the man seems to have taken a step forward. Terror clutches at Bucky’s throat, sealing his mouth shut.

He can feel beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face. Bucky starts counting in his head, like when he was a kid, for the next strike. The last flashes were twelve seconds apart, and he begins to count down. Bucky clenches his left hand into a fist.

“Three,” A clap of thunder booms, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Two,” A gust of air this time, chilled, hits his neck

“One,” Bucky swings, the metal of his arm glinting in the unearthly glow of the lightning. The man is so close to him, he can see pale lips moving in the bluish light.

Yet, Bucky’s arm catches nothing. The lightning dissipates, and the excess momentum pitches him forward. He lands roughly on the floor, skinning his knees in the process. Bucky hears the fuse blow in the swinging bulb, and the glass shatters around him, tinkling as it falls.

Sitting up, Bucky pushes himself flush against the cabinets, waiting for the man to reappear. Hours pass, and his eyelids begin to droop. The exhaustion and the fear make for a lethal combination, and despite his wishes, he succumbs to dreamless sleep right there on the kitchen floor.

.

He wakes up freezing. That’s the first thing that registers, the unforgiving chill now permeating his apartment. The spilled sugar is still on the floor, the words still scrawled on it. There’s glass in his hair, which he attempts to brush off. Bucky walks past the mess, scrubbing a hand over his hair. The apartment is too quiet, yet there’s no sign of the man. He brushes his teeth, hoping to get rid of the ghastly taste in his mouth. He sniffs his shirt, now rank with sweat. A shower is in order, too.

Bucky washes quickly, towelling his hair dry. He pulls on his old college shirt, and turns around to hang up his towel. And nearly has a heart attack in the process.

Right in front of him, is the man from last night. In the fluorescent glow of the washroom, he’s a full head shorter than him. Gaunt, his shoulders cave inwards, legs like little sticks under the beige slacks. His suspenders are too big for him, loose from where they’re clipped into the pants. And like a crown jewel, the centre of his chest blooms red, a dark circular wound, slick with blood.

So, a ghost covered in blood. Not particularly original, but Bucky isn’t a man who likes surprises. He still has several questions. Who shot you? Are you alright? Why are you wearing suspenders? But he can only stutter in confusion.

“W-who are you?”

“I’m Steve,” says the apparition, voice deeper than the small body it inhabited.

Bucky swallows. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m haunting you,” The apparition grimaces, as if he’d rather not. Instead of standing, he seems to be suspended in air, polished shoes pointing downwards a few inches off the ground.

Bucky blinks. This tiny man is _haunting_ him? As if sensing Bucky’s confusion, the medicine cabinet slams shut. The mirror cracks, and Steve takes a step towards him.

“Yes. Now get out of here,”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not leaving,”

The pipes burst. “You have to leave, Bucky,”

“You know my name?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his ghost nose. “Yes, but that’s not the point. Leave. Now.”

“Okay, hold up,” Bucky reaches past Steve to hang up his towel, but his hand goes right through the other man. At this point, it doesn’t even faze him.

Exiting the washroom, Steve trails after him. “You have to leave,”

“You’ve said that about a million times, Steve. Let’s move past this,”

“But,” Steve paces the living room, looking put out. “Aren’t you scared?”

Bucky turns to look at the ghost. “After that stunt you pulled last night, no. I think I can handle a tiny ghost man in my apartment,”

Steve growls. “This is _my_ apartment!”

“It’s mine. I pay rent every month, unlike you,”

“I lived here,” Steve sends a chair flying over his head. “I died here!”

Bucky ducks, mulling it over. “I’m sorry about that. But I can’t leave this place,”

Steve is livid, and the coffee table levitates menacingly beside him. “Why not?”

“Well, I’ve got nowhere else to go,” Bucky sits down on the couch, hoping his passive stance will convince Steve to put the table down. “There’s not many people willing to take in a veteran with more trauma than the whole regiment he served with,”

“What about your friends? The ones that were here yesterday?”

“I can’t do that to them,”

“You have to go, Bucky,” Steve’s voice takes on a strange, pleading tone. “This place – I’m stuck here. I can never leave,”

Bucky looks at him, deep in thought. Clearly, Steve needs his help. Besides, Bucky knows the dangers of being stuck in one place for too long – alive or dead. An idea forms slowly in his mind.  

“Why don’t we share? If I help you with being stuck and all, will you let me stay here?”

Steve lights up. “You can help?” The temperature of the apartment rises considerably.

 “I think so,” he pulls out his phone, sending a text message to an old friend. Steve’s blue lips twitch, almost smiling. He floats away, setting the coffee table down gently. Later, when Bucky leaves to help Clint buy organic dog food for Lucky, he hears Steve hum a tune Bucky doesn’t recognize.

.

In the weeks after the fight, Bucky becomes closer acquainted with his ‘roommate’.

Their stilted exchanges morph into easy conversation, with Steve slowly opening up to him. Bucky makes it his personal goal to show Steve every important film from each decade, starting with the fifties. He nearly cries with laughter when Steve discovers disco, and his subsequent affinity for Elvis Presley impressions.

Steve makes a list of all the historically important things he’s missed, and each night they peruse Bucky’s computer to catch him up. The moon landing, the rise and fall of the Berlin Wall, even Steve Jobs gets a thorough investigation from Steve. His enthusiasm is infectious, and Bucky finds himself just as excited to learn about history as Steve is. His high school teachers would’ve had a fit.

He tentatively introduces Steve to Marvin Gaye, lets the rhythm and blues glide them both through the years. Steve’s immediate love of the artist only serves to strengthen the growing commonalities between them.

It strikes him then, that amidst the chaos that was Bucky’s life with HYDRA, with the military, even when he was a young boy, his arrangement with Steve is perhaps the most secure thing that’s happened to him. The permanence of it all, how Steve will never die on him or leave the house, tethers him to Bucky.

Instead of awkward pity, Bucky clings tightly to the lifeline of Steve’s friendship. He listens, rapt, to the stories Steve shares, of playing with marbles with other children, catching rats in the lobby for a few dollars from the landlord, having salted pork over and over again for dinner – just to have enough money for the rent. Steve paints a beautiful picture of his mother, regaling Sarah Rogers as the noble and gentle queen of their tiny complex. Her death, caused by her unending hours in the infectious ward, tugs at Bucky’s heartstrings.

Steve, for his part, coaxes Bucky’s sob story out one reassuring smile at a time. He eyes the insignia on Bucky’s arm, and makes no comment when he sees it branded on his neck. Bucky finds himself telling Steve almost everything, from the benign problems he had in high school to the crushing despair he felt on those endless missions in Afghanistan.

_One night, when Bucky wakes up half-delirious from the pain medicines, it’s Steve who floats by his bed and changes the temperature to suit his feverish mood. And because of the drugs and the fear, Bucky divulges a mortifying secret that he’d managed to push into the back of his mind for weeks._

_“I wish,” he’d gasped, clenching his hand around his pillow. Steve’s cold breath fanned out over his face as he crouched to hear Bucky speak._

_“I wish you weren’t like this,” Bucky waved his hand through Steve’s side, fruitlessly going right through him. “I wish you were more solid. So I could – so I could hold you,”_

_Whatever Steve’s reply was, it was drowned out by the sudden wave of nausea that came over him. Bucky rolled onto his side and vomited into the trash can, groaning at the pain in his stomach._

_After the sickness had passed, Bucky avoided talking to Steve about that night, hoping that Steve had not completely heard him. Although he was certain Steve said something back, it was a small relief that Bucky didn’t hear it._

_He didn’t want to know how Steve felt. He wasn’t sure he could’ve handled it._

.

Bucky fulfills his promise to Ms. Schmidt first. He climbs out the window, balancing on the thick stone ledge that leads to the drains. The wind whips at his hair, and the city is breathtaking from his vantage point. From here, he can see the open window of his own unit.

When Steve pokes his head out, Bucky nearly loses his grip, almost tumbling four storeys down. Instead, he bangs his leg hard against the window pane.

“James?” calls the old woman, her cane tapping in front of her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts out, flipping Steve the bird. He catches Steve’s smile before he ducks back in.

After wrapping the sheet metal with duct tape, Bucky climbs back in. Ms. Schmidt’s dining table is covered in flowery cloth, with some old china set on top. She lays a folded napkin down, smoothing its crinkled edges.

“Would you like to stay for tea?”

She offers a biscuit, holding it in front of her. The crumbs fall to the floor, yet she doesn’t seem to take notice. Bucky should leave, he’s got a doctor’s appointment in an hour. But he can’t make himself refuse her kind offer.

“Sure,” he says, sitting down. Silently, she pours tea for the both of them.  He sips the tea, watching as she fumbles with the kettle. After a while, she sits down too, smiling at him brightly. The radiator rumbles quietly, despite the August heat.

“So,” She dips her biscuit into her tea. “Have you met Steve yet?”

Bucky stares at her, mouth hanging open.

“You - you know about Steve?”

She nods, polishing her bifocals with a handkerchief. His disbelief must be plain on his face, because she chuckles when she puts the glasses back on.

“He usually shows himself in the first few weeks. I think he’s a little behind schedule this year,”

“Schedule?” Bucky presses a hand to his forehead, trying to suspend the migraine that’s bound to come.

“Every year, on the dot, Steve shows up and tries to scare off anyone in his apartment. All of us are used to it, but there haven’t been any new tenants in that unit since ’82,”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

The old lady looks abashed. “You wouldn’t have stayed here if we just _told_ you. You’ve been so helpful around the building, James. We all need you!”

“Besides,” she lays her hand over his. “We knew you’d be good for Steve. The poor boy’s been cooped up in there for longer than he would care to admit,”

“How long?”

She took a sip of her tea. Thin purple veins criss-cross her bony hand. “My husband and I moved in here in 1976. Steve had been around for only thirty years, so I guess, since the forties,”

Bucky fights the urge to pull his hand back. Kate was right. Since the forties.

“The last time someone went there, it was this young thing from Manhattan. That slick business man tried to buy this place up. He went to survey Steve’s place, and ran out screaming himself hoarse. Never heard from him again. Scared ‘em so bad, Steve didn’t talk to any of us for weeks. Really upset him, you know,”

She glances at his still-full teacup. Dutifully, he takes a sip.

“How –” He pauses, carefully choosing his next words. “How did Steve die?”

 Ms. Schmidt shakes her head, lips pressed in a tight line. “He doesn’t like to talk about that,”

“But -”

“You should go, James. I know you’re kept busy with that arm of yours,”

With unexpected force, she wheels him out of the apartment. Bucky tries to ask her again about Steve’s death, and she has none of it. Still, from the other side of the door, she obliges him.

“You’re a good man, James. If you’ve been here this long, it means Steve likes you. Just don’t hurt him. The boy’s got enough of that already,”

With that, she slams the door in his face.

.

After meeting up with his physiotherapist, Bucky checks his phone. One new message waits for him, from Natasha. Bucky presses the call button next to her name.

It rings once, twice, three times. Bucky considers hanging up, when at the last ring she picks up.

“Hello?”

“James,” Natasha sounds pleased, but he can’t tell through the background noise. A car honks on her end, and he hears faint swearing as the sounds are gradually muted. She must have moved to a quieter place to speak with him.

“How are you?” Her voice is still smooth as silk. Bucky ignores the pang in his chest from hearing her speak.

“I’m fine,” he crosses the street, waving thankfully at the cars that stopped for him. “Listen, I need your help,”

Natasha chuckles. “You never call me just to chat anymore, James. I’m a little hurt,” Despite the playful tone of her voice, he winces. It’s been years since he’d ever called her under normal circumstances, and even longer ‘just to chat’. He begins to apologize, but she cuts him off.

“I’m not blaming you,” her voice gets a little softer. A pause on the other, and he hears static for a while. Just as he thinks the connection’s been lost, she starts to speak again.

“What do you need?”

Bucky grins, buzzing himself into the apartment. “Remember that favour you owed me, since Bogota,”

Natasha groans over the line. “Yeah, I remember,”

“I think I want to call it in,”

“Fine,” she grumbles. “Give me a time and a place. I’ll be there, as soon as I can,”

.

_Bucky is nineteen when he joins the army and nineteen when he meets Natasha Romanov, and he knows that those two events will ultimately change him forever. Trailing Natasha is dangerous, all the boys in his unit tried it when they first saw her, but the stoic Russian agent assigned on their operation doesn’t budge. She doesn’t laugh at their jokes, doesn’t respond to the lewd comments some of the boys throw at her, and doesn’t even seem to eat. Only when Bucky offers her the last of his apple when they lie abandoned in the ruins of Kabul does she bestow upon him a slight smile. Cut with his father’s Swiss Army knife, they both chase the moisture of the fruit with their tongues until the taste is completely gone. Natasha squeezes his hand, and the silent promise of her friendship and loyalty is better than any ill-fated kiss he had wished for._

_Bucky memorized the dead look in her eyes, memorized her lethal gait. He knows the sound of her before he sees her, and then five years later she comes into his life again._

_“You came,” he mumbled, and threw his arms around her neck. She hugged him back tightly, and he hobbled out of the bunker in Volgograd. His arm hurt like hell, and half of his body was going numb, but Bucky slung an arm around his old friend and limped all the way back to helicopter without a sound._

.

Natasha requires at least a week to complete her mission in Bangkok, and another to book the appropriate flights without leaving a paper trail. Bucky takes that time to prepare Steve for meeting her. He turns off his phone, only opening Facebook so Sam and Clint know he’s alright.

‘ **Bucky Barnes** is busy’ he types on his status. It’s tacky, but he knows his friends will understand.

He divulges his plan to Steve.

“Your girlfriend’s a psychic medium?”

“She’s got some knowledge on the subject,” he shrugs. “And Natasha is not my girlfriend,”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, instead gazing at the metal bookshelf he’d installed a week ago. Bucky’s answer must displease him, as the room becomes extremely frigid. Bucky opens up his laptop, searching the website Natasha had told him about.

“You don’t speak to just any dame like that, Bucky,” Steve’s tone is much too gentle, and Bucky doesn’t like where the conversation is heading.

“I care for her,” he admits, focusing on the computer screen in front of him. “But it’s been years since we – well, you understand,”

The website finally loads, and Bucky turns the screen so that Steve can see. An animated witch flies across the home page, cackling with delight. The page reads _Ten Steps to Cross Over an Earthbound Spirit._

Steve raises an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“It’s to help you cross over. Like, into the spiritual realm or whatever,” Bucky finishes lamely, cursing himself for sounding so unsure.

Steve points a long finger to the first rule of crossing over. “The lost spirit may be frightened upon realizing that they are indeed deceased,” He snorts.

“I know I’m dead, Buck. What else is new?”

 Bucky hides his smile in his sleeve. “Keep reading. Maybe this site will actually tell us something,”

Steve peers over his shoulder, icy breath blowing on his neck. He watches Steve’s expression, contorting into amusement and flat- out confusion. His lips are still blue, matching the deathly pallor of his face. His straw-like hair falls into his face, and Bucky ponders at his sudden desire to brush it back.

“You may comfort the spirit by telling them their loved ones are waiting on the other side,”

Bucky twirls the chair around, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You’ve got anyone on the other side, Steve? Parents, wife and kids?”

Steve shakes his head, looking Bucky straight in the eye. “Never had the mind to take a wife,”

Bucky’s chest feels tight. It’s almost like Steve’s told him a secret. Instead of meeting his gaze, he shakes off Steve’s attention and spins in his chair.

“What about your parents?”

“Ma passed away with tuberculosis in ’40. Dad was long gone before that,”

“Can you –” Bucky gulps, hating how ridiculous he sounds. “Can you feel their presence?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. “You askin’ me if I see the light or something?”

“Do you?”

Steve shakes his head. “Ma would tan my hide for saying it, but I don’t see any spiritual light or heaven or anything. I’ve been staring at these four walls for so long, I don’t see much else,” He sounds strangely calm, as if the absence of the much-revered Other Side doesn’t bother him.

Bucky feels a strange tug of guilt, considering Steve’s plight, stuck in one spot for more than seventy years. He wonders how Steve kept sane all those years.

“Well,” Bucky points to the fourth step. “It says here some spirits are stuck on this world because of unfinished business. A - a sudden death,” He makes it a point to not stare at the gunshot wound on Steve’s chest.

“Do you remember anything about that?”

“No,”

“ _Steve_ ,”

“I said no,”

Bucky feels his temper flare. There was no reason for Steve to be so obtuse.

“This is unfinished business. This is why you’re stuck here! You’re telling me you don’t know who shot you in the chest?”

Instantly, he knows he’s made a mistake. Steve’s jaw clenches, and the blood from his wound begins to drip onto the floor. The doors slam shut, and the metal frame of his bookshelf begins to twist, causing books to fly off the shelf.

“I don’t know anything!” he snarls. The bookshelf finally collapses, one of the metal legs coming straight off and whacking Bucky’s ribs. He clutches his side, letting out a pained groan as Steve floats angrily through the door. He lays there, arms wrapped around his middle, among the destroyed shelf and fallen books.

.

Steve doesn’t talk to him for two whole days. On the third day, he watches silently as Bucky presses an ice-pack to the bruise on his torso. He winces when the chilled pack touches his bare skin, and ignores Steve as he hovers aimlessly behind him. One of his cuts has reopened, staining his ratty t-shirt. He pulls out the makeshift first aid kit from the linen closet, taking out antiseptic cream and some gauze.

“I’m sorry,” Steve calls out, looking distraught. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,”

“But you did,” he replies, voice level. From the kitchen drawer, he snips some large pieces of adhesive tape into squares.

Steve folds in on himself, shoulders hunched and head hung low. Only the radiator chooses to speak, clanking away loudly in the living room. Bucky applies the cream with one hand, wondering how he can convince Steve to just talk to him.

“Can you pass me the gauze?” he asks, voice softer than before.

Steve drops the gauze in his open palm, ready to bolt once he catches it. Bucky holds up a hand.

“Just press it against the cut here,” he guides Steve through it, sticking the gauze on his side. Finally, the soft cotton is taped to the opened cut, and since it doesn’t bleed through he figures it’s alright now.

“That’s all?” Steve doesn’t look convinced with his medical skills. “Don’t you need stitches?”

The second he says it, he snaps his mouth shut and looks away. Steve’s guilt begins to overshadow him.

Bucky flattens his palms to his thighs, adopting the tone his therapist used with him. A little patronizing, but it dragged him out of his self-destructive slumps more than a few times. He takes a deep breath, hoping Steve takes the bait and starts talking.

“You want to tell me why you flipped out like that?”

 “I was upset. I lost control,”

“That seems to happen a lot,”

Steve wrings his hands together. “I don’t know what to say, Buck. Seventy years dead and I never learned to back down from a fight,”

Bucky turns around, moving the ice-pack to the shiner on eye. “This wasn’t a fight, Steve. I was trying to help you,” he says softly.

 “And now?” Steve moves closer, curious gaze trained on Bucky. “You still want to help me now?”

“Of course,” Bucky replies, unthinking. “I’m not going to give up so easily,”

Steve blinks once, twice, three times. His mouth hangs open.

The shock on Steve’s face bothers him, as if the other man doesn’t believe that he deserves the help. It reminds Bucky too much of the self-effacing bullshit he used to throw at others, dismissing their comments about what he went through as nothing.

“Listen,” he shifts uncomfortably, wondering if he’s oversharing. “Five years ago, I was doing my last tour in Afghanistan. It wasn’t so bad – I had Sam with me and sometimes Natasha would call from a payphone. But I was captured five miles from Kabul by this – this organization that wanted information from me. I didn’t have it, but they -” Bucky swallows, trying to supress the bile rising in his throat. “They tortured me for about a year, then shipped me off to Russia for some medical testing. Somehow that was even worse. And with everything that they did to me, I became a very different person.  Even when I was rescued, I was in this funk. No amount of therapy or ‘acclimation exercises’ could change what I had become. It was only recently that I learned to be honest with myself, and realize it was okay to be hurt,”

Steve looks at him with such deep concern that Bucky has to turn away to continue. A selfish part of him wants to divulge every horrible thing Hydra did to him, just so the horrible secret can leave him and latch onto someone else. But he refrains. This time is for Steve.  

Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to organize the jumbled thoughts in his head. Speeches were never his strong suit.

“Asking for help isn’t a bad thing. But if you’re like me, and you never ask, here’s something I learned: neither is taking the help anyway,”

Bucky finishes, watching Steve’s expression carefully. Steve looks blank. He nods once, mostly to himself, and floats in the opposite direction.

“Give me some time,” Steve asks after a short pause. Bucky nods, watching him go, wondering if his long-winded ramble deterred Steve from ever speaking to him again. His heart sinks when the door to the bathroom slams shut.

For a while Bucky just sits there, perched on the couch, staring dejectedly at the tub of antiseptic cream. After a while he cleans up, convincing himself that whatever Steve decides to tell him is his own choice, regardless of what Bucky wants for him.

He trusts Steve, even now, when the ball is in his court, with the potential rejection of his help. Of the hand of friendship Bucky extended to his ghost. One he thought had been accepted, maybe not completely. But at least in some capacity they were friends.

And now, waiting for Steve to return with his decision, the anxiety building up in his chest, now -

Now all he had to do was wait.

.

Bucky hears things banging and flying around in his tiny bathroom, and he itches to go over and check out what Steve’s doing. The risk of rejection keeps him stuck to his seat though, so he just listens to the commotion and hopes Steve hasn’t broken anything he can’t pick up in the local corner store.

Suddenly, the noise dies down. Steve appears in his periphery, and Bucky remains very still. The silence crawls over him.

“You should see this,” Steve announces, dropping bundle of papers in his lap. A frayed string binds the sheets together, tied neatly with a knot. Bucky sees dozens of newspaper clippings, some so faded with age he has to squint to make out the words.

Steve pulls out one photograph, black and white and torn at the edges. A young boy stares back, face grim from under the newsboy hat. A woman too, small frame covered in a simple cotton dress, lays a hand over his shoulder. They stand against a brick wall. Behind the photograph is a simple inscription:

_Sarah and Steve Rogers, 1930._

“That was when I made a poster for the local enlistment office, in Bushwick. They paid me ten dollars for it, and Ma was so proud. They took a picture of us both, said they needed it for their records. Said I was a great gift to the war effort,”

Steve huffs a laugh, holding the photograph between his fingers. “I never seen Ma so happy before,”

Bucky looks up, catching the faint smile on Steve’s lips. He stays silent as Steve digs through the pile, pulling out one article from the mess.

**Shooting in Brooklyn, Two Dead.**

“That’s you,” he breathes, poring over the article. Two dead, a man and a woman, found slumped in their chairs with a gunshot wound to the chest. No one saw the killer, no one heard the shot, and the bodies were found ten days after death. Bucky gulps, hoping the article won’t trigger Steve into closing off again.

“A woman?” he ventures.

Steve nods. “Miss Colleen, two floors above me. After the – after, I tried looking for her. But I guess she passed on straight away,”

Bucky feels a pang in his chest. Steve must have been so confused, so alone. He wishes he could sling his arm around Steve, try to push away the melancholy that’s settled above both of them.

“Where were you?” Steve floats towards the window, the muted light of the morning making him look translucent.

“World Expo, back in ‘41. I was supposed to go on a date, but I found the enlistment office. Thought I’d try my luck,”

“Did they accept you?”

Steve chuckles, gesturing to his waifish figure. “With this body? They had a good laugh and sent me packing. It was Dr. Erskine who found me, told me that he could help,”

“He was going to sneak you in?”

“Not exactly. Dr. Erskine said if I was willing, he could make me physically able to enlist. He had a serum or something to make stronger,”

“Some guy offered you a magical serum and you just took it?”

“I was desperate,” Steve furrows his brow. “I had something to prove. I took the first chance I got at enlisting, and I held on to it,”

“They did a damn good job of convincing me, too. Brought me to this fancy lab, owned by Howard Stark himself. Buncha agents all looking, watching me. One guy in a fancy suit, trying to act casual but I could see was just as excited as the rest of us,”

Bucky lets out a deep breath. “Erskine gives you the serum, a way out, and then what? The serum obviously didn’t work,”

“I get out of whatever contraption they put me in, I shake Erskine’s hand and I start walking home, hanging my head like a dog. Although it didn’t work, it hurt like hell, and I was sore all over. Suddenly, I hear this commotion behind me,”

“Miss Carter takes a shot, and everyone starts running. Beside me, some nurse yells ‘he’s got the serum’ and Erskine tries to get it back. The guy in the suit starts muttering real low, and I can hear him because I’ve got my ear pressed against the door. And he says ‘you’ve failed again, Abraham. You know I hate failure’, and shoots the doctor right there,”

“Same man who shot you?”

“Yes,”

Bucky doesn’t finish his question before Steve starts speaking again.

“It was Director Pierce. He followed me back to the apartment. Miss Colleen was in the way, so he killed her too,”

 “P-pierce?”

“Director Pierce. Head of hydro - something or the other, I don’t know. Dr. Erskine didn’t like him, but we couldn’t make him go away. Said he wanted to see if his friends were right about the serum,”

 Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Distantly, he supposes Steve is asking him something, yet it feels like someone’s stuffed cotton in his ears. His hands are trembling in his lap, and for a brief second Bucky feels weightless. Then a bead of sweat slides down his forehead and he collapses, slumping out of his swivel chair and right on to the floor. Steve’s frantic voice fades in and out, but he succumbs to the welcoming darkness instead.

.

“Bucky?”

Someone is shaking him, hard. His left arm goes up immediately, aiming for the throat. His metal fingers surround empty air, and Bucky blinks himself awake.

“Bucky! Are you alright?”

“What happened?” he mumbles, feeling groggy.

“You fainted, that’s what happened,”

Bucky finds himself sprawled a few feet away from his swivel chair. He pushes himself onto his elbows Steve now a few inches away from his chest. He doesn’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed.

It dawns on him that Pierce was Steve’s killer. The same killer who recruited Bucky from HYDRA, who left him for dead to the Soviets, the same Pierce that single-handedly destroyed his life in a matter of a few short years. The man that ruined Bucky’s life was the same man who ended Steve’s.

Suddenly, his objective changes. _Some spirits are chained to this world due to unfinished business._ The only way he can help Steve is to bring justice to his murder.

So he hears himself saying, “We’re going to catch this guy, Steve,” and he relishes the timid hope on his friend’s face, the way Steve doesn’t stop staring at him with that awed expression, the changed space between them, infinitely closer than just moments ago. And he stores this moment for later, for when his courage begins to run out.

.

Natasha arrives at the airport in style, lowering her designer shades when she catches sight of Bucky. Her perfume wafts over him, and he takes the time to press closer to her, bury his nose in her hair.

“You came,” he mutters into her shoulder. She chuckles, and he can feel the vibrations in her chest. He pulls back, gripping her shoulders tight, and studies her face. No new scars, at least not those he can see. Her eyes follow him, but the fondness in them makes him smile. For someone who lives by shifting identities, she hasn’t changed at all.

They walk out of the airport with arms linked, climbing into the taxi Bucky picked. The cabbie pushes her bags into the trunk, and he speeds off. The metre ticks, and the airport becomes a small dot in the horizon.

“Change of plans,” he announces, closing the partition out of habit. “We’ve got a murder to solve,”

She doesn’t say anything, but he knows this worries her.

“Who are we trying to catch?”

Bucky grins, wide and feral. “Alexander Pierce,”

This time Natasha gasps, her hand closing into a fist. “James, you can’t be -”

“I’m dead serious, Nat. We’ve got the evidence to put him away for years,”

The taxi pulls up by his apartment. Natasha climbs out, and the driver hurries to open the trunk for her. Bucky grips the luggage, tipping him generously before opening the doors to the main lobby.

“No one is going to say shit about what he did to you, James. He’s paid them all to keep their mouths closed. You _know_ that,”

 “It’s not me this time,” He shakes his head, opening the door for her.

“I’m home,” he calls out. On cue, Steve appears, floating nervously before him. Natasha takes a step back, hand going to her hip for her gun. She notices Steve’s hovering a few inches above the ground, and sends Bucky a bewildered look.

“Who are you?” she holds the gun in front of him, stepping in front of Bucky.

“I’m Steve,”

“Get back, or I’ll shoot!” Steve doesn’t move, only cocking his head to one side as he floats closer to her. Natasha’s hands don’t shake, but she does tighten her grip on the barrel of the gun – a nervous tic she never managed to drop.

“Get back,” she repeats, voice cold as ice. She cocks the safety, and Bucky tries to intervene, only to have Natasha fire a single shot, right at Steve. The hit goes through him, obviously, and marks up the wall behind the sink.

Steve stares at the closing hole in his stomach. Natasha staggers back, one hand over her mouth. Bucky catches her from behind, taking the gun from her hands.

“I knew you’d use the silencer,”

She doesn’t reply, instead dropping down on his couch.

“Steve’s a ghost. He lives in my apartment. Alexander Pierce killed him, in 1941. You’re going to help me find him, and charge him with triple homicide,”

Natasha scrubs a hand over her face. “You could’ve told me this before I took the shot, James!”

“Would you have believed me?”

Natasha purses her lips, looking at Steve and then him. She clenches her jaw, and he can tell it takes a lot of effort for her to tell the truth.

“No, I wouldn’t have,”

Bucky grins, rubbing her shoulders. “Exactly,”

She exhales deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. It doesn’t seem to faze her that Steve is undead.

“What are we going to do now? Pierce has been missing since 2009,”

“A man like that doesn’t just disappear,”

“I’m aware, James. But going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried,”

Bucky blinks, ignoring the crushed look on Steve’s face. He isn’t going to give up so easily.

“We gather more evidence, talk to our contacts. Let him know that we haven’t forgotten. Lure him out of his hiding place,”

“Then?”

“Then we go to whoever is willing to convict him,”

“And if no one is?”

“Natasha,” he growls, grabbing her arm. “They _will_ convict him. And he will pay for what he’s done to Steve,”

“You mean what he’s done to you,” Natasha uses his grip to pull him closer, and drags his ear down to her lips. “Don’t pretend that this isn’t about getting your revenge on Pierce,”

“Maybe it is,” he admits, looking over his shoulder at Steve, who is awkwardly hovering behind them. “But I have to do this,”

Natasha looks at him as if she’s seen him for the first time. “Fine,” she says finally, placing her hands on her hips. “But we’re not doing this alone,”

.

“Lemme get this straight. You want to convict Pierce of a murder he committed more than seventy years ago?” Sam’s mouth hangs open.

“Murders,” Bucky corrects. “Three people were killed,”

“Pierce was last seen in Washington, D.C. apparently he was looking for a retirement mansion,” Natasha adds, writing the coordinates on a sticky note.

“He’s still in America?” Clint asks, from where he’s perched by the window. “Why would he be so close to SHIELD headquarters?”

“Because nobody’s looking for him,” finishes Kate, scratching Lucky behind the ears. “Everyone’s forgotten,”

They all fall silent. Only then Steve speaks up, voice a little hopeful.

“Not everyone,” he smiles, pulling a small sketch from the pile of evidence. A young woman, eyes bright, with her lips painted in the most brilliant red Bucky’s ever seen. Her mouth is sharp, and he feels the same ache in his chest.

“Peggy,” he says to himself. “Peggy Carter,”

“ _The_ Peggy Carter? Like Agent Carter? Like the woman who basically ended the war? Is that who you’re talking about?” Kate’s eyes are wide, her excitement bleeding onto all of them. Steve nods, and the group begins to babble excitedly among themselves.

Natasha touches his shoulder. “You sure we’ll find her?”

“We have to,”

.

Finding Peggy Carter becomes almost too easy. Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, following the receptionist down to the private rooms. Sam had flashed a charming grin and his SHIELD badge, and she’d all too graciously led the two of them to meet Agent Carter.

She lays prone on the bed, head propped up by several pillows. She watches them silently, but doesn’t speak a word.

“Agent Carter,” begins Sam, folding his hands in front of him. “My name is Sam and this is Bu- James. Could we ask you a couple of questions?”

“Pertaining to what, exactly?” Her voice is as sharp and clipped as Bucky remembered.  He tries not to gawk at her, remembering the incident nearly a month before. Her hair is grey, and lines run around her mouth, but Bucky still feels her keen gaze go right through him.

“It’s about Project Insight,” Bucky says, watching her expression close off. Despite ‘seeing’ her almost a month ago, he feels a strange disconnect between the imposing figure in the alley and the tired woman before him. Her greying hair pools on the pillow, and purplish veins wind long trails over her bare arms.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you gentlemen much about what happened. It was a closed case,” She reaches for the call button, and Bucky cuts in before she can summon the nurse.

“Could you tell me about Steve, then? Steve Rogers, died in 1941?” He pulls out the enlistment form, handing the crinkled paper over to her.

Agent Carter takes it, looking shocked. “How do you –?”

 “We’ve got our sources, ma’am,” Sam shrugs.

Agent Carter purses her lips, looking at both of them shrewdly. Despite her immobilized state, Bucky can see her mind going in all directions.   

“Project Insight was an experiment, for the war. We thought if one man received the serum, he would’ve had the strength of an entire army. It was a fantasy, to say the least, but we believed in it so dearly that even Steve’s death didn’t stop us from trying again,”

“Who else received the serum?”

She barks out a laugh. “Myself, a few of my colleagues. Did nothing but make us sicker now,”

A coughing fit overtakes her, and Sam rubs her back and pours her a glass of water. Bucky leans against the wall, trying to make sense of what she’s told them. When Carter speaks again, he listens closely.

“The overseer for the whole project was Pierce. I understand you both are looking to take him down for the murders. The files you need are locked away at Camp Lehigh,”

“How did you know we came for Pierce?”

She says nothing, and eventually Sam gets a call from Natasha on a lead. Bucky follows him out of the room, casting a final glance at the woman on the bed. She holds the enlistment form in her hand, and he sees her lips moving as she commits Steve’s name to memory.

.

 Camp Lehigh is a desolate concrete jungle. The chain link fence, torn in some places and missing in others, puts up no fight as they climb through it. The grass is yellowed and dead, and large patches of dirt spot the field. In the centre, a concrete bunker looms over the field.

“This is Camp Lehigh?” Sam questions. He checks his phone for the address Agent Carter provided.

“Must be,” Bucky points to a rusting plaque hung on the door. “Says here it closed down in the sixties thought,”

Sam doesn’t say anything more, but Bucky knows what he’s thinking. _This_ place holds the secret government files to bring down the most powerful man in the country? The dilapidated nature of the bunker fills Bucky with dread, which only heightens his senses as they push through the metal doors.

Sticking close to Sam’s side, Bucky turns corners just as he was trained – quick and sharp, gun cocked and pointed dangerously in front of him. They pace through a maze of corridors, peeking into abandoned barracks. Pushing into the main conference room, Bucky holds his breath as Sam kicks the door open. Yet, only the flickering lights of the control room greet them.

Compared to the rest of the bunker, the conference room is pristine, almost spotless. It sparkles white, and a wide oak table stands in the middle. A folder lays carelessly on the edge.

A folder named Steve Rogers with the HYDRA insignia stamped on it like a brand. A couple of USB sticks and floppy disks peek out from the thick manila. Bucky fights the urge to scratch his neck.   

Bucky holds Sam back as he attempts to take it.

“Don’t,” his voice turns to steel.

“Barnes, she was right. We can trust Carter. She said the info was here and it is,”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s a trap,” The horrible feeling in his gut returns. Sam shakes his head, casts the same pitying look at him. He grabs the folder, shoves the first few files into his back pocket. Bucky watches with bated breath, waiting for the ball to drop. Someone will surely pop out from the corner, grab him.

Sam pushes open the bunker door, leading them back to the main hall. Back in the desecration of the bunkers, the extreme cleanliness of the conference room unnerves him. Sam pockets his gun, laying a reassuring arm on Bucky’s shoulder. He begins to relax. Agent Carter was right. They can give the file to Natasha’s techie friends, fly back home, see Steve in the comfortable apartment…

“James,”

Bucky freezes. Sam reaches for his gun, but it’s too late. A bullet whizzes past, nailing him square in the gut. Sam falls, clutching at the deep wound.

Slowly, Bucky turns around, raising his arms above his head. The narrow hallways seem to be closing in on him. Their parallel lines traverse to one focal point, the man in the grey suit. Pierce.

“What do you want?” he calls out. It’s a miracle the words have escaped his throat.

Pierce grins, saunters towards him with the confidence of a ringmaster. He throws his arms up, wide, gun still in his left hand. He stops near Bucky, close enough so he can smell the expensive cologne and aftershave. Smell the filthy money that seems to flow through Pierce’s veins.

“My boy, don’t you think we were due for a reunion? It’s been so long. I’ve missed you,”

His phone buzzes, startling both of them. Pierce nods, and Bucky pulls it out of his pocket.

“Boys, have you found anything yet?”

“Natasha, we’ll call you back,” Bucky ends the call, placing his phone back. His phone keeps buzzing, no doubt filling up with Natasha’s worried messages.

Pierce keeps watching him, and keeps moving closer. Bucky fights the urge to recoil. Pierce searches his face, pale blue eyes examining every inch. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t breathe until Pierce is satisfied, until he steps two whole steps back.

“So,” Pierce walks around Sam’s body, crouches over it. Pulls the crumpled files from his jean pockets. “You’re going to frame me for, what was it? Murder?”

Bucky keeps his mouth shut. Sam groans, and Pierce’s wrinkled face breaks out into a grin. “Quite a loyal friend you’ve got here. Followed you all the way from Afghanistan to Brooklyn,”

“Loyalty is a very good quality to have, don’t you think Sam?” Pierce nudges Sam’s prone form, prompting a strained groan.

Bucky clenches his jaw. “What do you want?” he repeats. Pierce ignores him, instead leaning against the rusted metal railing of the hallway.

“I believe there are two kinds of people in the world. Those that are the masters, the leaders of the free world. And those-” Pierce’s eyes flick back to him. “Those that are the dogs. The followers. Eternally loyal,”

“You’ve been a good boy, James. Followed instructions exceptionally well – better than anyone else I’ve seen. So when you chose to leave, you can imagine how much it hurt me. I kept my eyes on you, watched you forget where you came from, who you belonged to. I understood everything about you. I watched it all, and you know what?”

“What?” he grits out.

“I forgive you,” Pierce squeezes his shoulder. Bucky clenches his fists, failing to quell his anger.

Pierce notices, of course, and in a fraction of a second whips out his pistol. He slams the butt of the firearm into Bucky’s nose, shoving him back. A bone crunches, and his nose throbs with the pain. Pierce pulls him to his feet by the hair.  

“But the one thing I could never understand is this obsession with Steve Rogers. My sources tell me you’re holed up in that apartment, talking to yourself for hours. Have you finally cracked?”

“Steve is real,”

“He _was_ real. I shot that weakling in 1941. I did our country a favour by making good old Erskine accountable for his failures,”

“And Colleen?” Bucky asks, digging his nails into his palm. “Why did you kill her?”

Pierce raises his eyebrows, no doubt wondering how Bucky knew about Colleen. Finally, he shrugs. “She was in the way,”

Bucky roars, grabbing Pierce by the neck and holding him up against the wall. “You’ll pay for this,”

Pierce doesn’t even attempt to remove Bucky’s hands. “Let’s suppose you’re right, James. You’ll take this evidence, submit it to the police, and maybe I’ll even get arrested. But how long do you think they’ll keep me in there? How long until my good friends in Moscow or Kabul or even Washington free me, and get rid of you? I don’t want you to get hurt, James,”

Bucky tightens his grip around Pierce’s neck, left arm whirring with the added force. He mulls over the new information. Pierce has contacts all around the world. No prison, American or otherwise, would be able to keep him in for long.

“You know I’m right,” It’s a miracle Pierce is still speaking, given that his windpipe is steadily collapsing under the vibranium grip. “What do you want all of this? Is it retribution?”

“This isn’t about me,”

“Oh, but it is! Maybe the reason you could never find any dirt on me is because I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Murder is wrong. Torture is wrong. What you did to me-”

“I made you stronger, James! I gave purpose to your pathetic life, such purpose that you’re still chasing me, after all those years apart,”

Bucky, in that instant, makes up his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam sprawled across the floor. His chest is rising, albeit weakly. Bucky removes his right arm from the stranglehold. Pierce grins, attempts to touch him.

“I knew you would come to your senses. There’s no use in fighting me. Together, you and I can make the world great. Like we used to. We-”

With his left arm, Bucky snaps Pierce’s neck. His body slumps to the floor.

Bucky takes a moment to observe Pierce’s body, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. He feels no remorse, only a bone deep sense of relief. He hurries over to Sam, checking his pulse.

Bucky dials Natasha, asks her to call an ambulance.

“James, we just found out that Pierce is in the building. You’ve got to get out of there, fast!”

“I killed him, Natasha. Please, just send an ambulance for Sam. He’s got a deep wound, and I can’t staunch the bleeding,”

“You-” Natasha exhales shakily. “Alright, I’m sending in a SHIELD helicopter. It’ll be there in three minutes,”

“Thank you,” For some reason, his hands won’t stop shaking, and it takes five tries to press the red button to end the call.

Bucky cradles Sam’s head in his arms, trying to keep him conscious.

“Sam! Wake up, Sam, you have to stay with me,”

“Pierce?” There’s blood between them, and Bucky can’t tell which is his.

“Pierce is gone,”

Sam cracks a thin smile. “I knew you’d off that motherfucker sooner or later,”

Bucky can’t help but laugh, and when the EMTs find him exactly three minutes later, he’s still laughing as they wheel him and Sam onto the stretchers.

.

After the SHIELD helicopter flies them both back to Brooklyn, Bucky refuses to stay in the hospital.

“You’ve got a broken nose, sir. Our private facility has excellent care options, and you’ll be feeling fine in no time at all,”

Bucky shakes his head, looking at Natasha exiting the hospital. She had hugged Sam, wishing him the best for his surgery. He must have cracked a joke, as she enters the landed helicopter with a slight smile on her lips.

“I’d rather go home,” he says to her. She nods understandingly.

“We’ll take care of James,” she commands, and the SHIELD medics nod meekly.

“How are you feeling?” Natasha presses her cool palm to his cheek.

“I’m fine,”

“James-”

“When’s my trial? For killing Pierce, I mean. No doubt his friends in Washington want a piece of me now,”

“There is no trial,” says a voice behind Natasha. From the cockpit emerges Nick Fury, Natasha’s intimidating boss and even more intimidating friend.

Natasha smiles at him.

“But-”

“Barnes, we at SHIELD have been waiting for someone to get rid of that man for fifty years. Take my word for it when I say no one is coming after you. You’ve done us all a great service,”

“That’s right, James. Plus, SHIELD has assigned an agent to stay with you, just in case someone _is_ looking for you,”

Bucky smiles, despite the sharp pain in his nose. “You’re staying?”

“Of course I am. Where else am I going to find a man that’ll cook for me whenever I want?”

“I cooked for you last week, Romanov!” Fury looks mock-outraged. Or maybe he really is outraged. Bucky can’t tell.

“A dry fettucine Alfredo does not a meal make, Fury,”

.

Back in the apartment, Bucky is greeted with a warm welcome.  Kate and Clint thrust a cake in front of him, complete with mismatched candles and melting frosting. Lucky barks excitedly, bowling him over and licking his face. They even manage to get Sam on Skype, right after his surgery.

“I didn’t know anyone could look good in hospital gowns, but you pull it off Wilson!” Clint blows a kiss to Sam’s smiling face on the screen. Sam winks back.

“How are you feeling, Sam?” Bucky pushes Clint away.

“I’m pretty good. It was an exit wound, clean as hell too. Didn’t hit any major arteries or anything,” 

“That’s good to hear,”

Natasha picks up the computer, convincing them that she needs to talk to Sam privately. Everyone oohs and ahhs, and she rolls her eyes while walking into Bucky’s bedroom.

Bucky looks around for Steve, but he can’t find him. He decides to look for him later, after eating the cake Clint keeps raving about.

“It’s so good, Bucky. It’s cheesecake and ice cream cake all in one!”

“Yeah,” Kate swipes some frosting onto her finger. “It sounded kind of disgusting but it’s actually really good!”

After two slices of cake, Bucky leaves the living room to go look for Steve. Kate and Clint take Lucky on a walk, leaving Bucky to do all the dishes and clean up the disaster in the kitchen. Without them, the apartment becomes quiet again, the clunky radiator humming through the white noise. Natasha is still in his bedroom, murmuring softly with Sam. He finds Steve floating nervously in the washroom, by the shower.

“You didn’t come into the living room? We had cake,”

“It’s not like I could’ve eaten it anyway,” Steve shies away from his gaze. Bucky drinks him in, the bowed shoulders and straw-like hair, the too big suspenders. Steve’s got his arms crossed over his chest.

“You alright?” Something about his behaviour is off. The cheerful disposition has been replaced with a sombre caution that spreads over both of them.

Steve uncrosses his arms. His white shirt is pristine and unmarked. The chest wound, the blood spatters, the hole – they’re all gone.

 “This – this is good news, isn’t it? You’re getting better?”

“I don’t know Buck. I’m becoming more, solid, I suppose,” He lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, having to float a few inches above to reach it. Steve’s hand has become more solid, even a little warm.

Bucky bites his tongue, remembering his nausea driven confession to Steve all those weeks ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed between them.

“Why don’t you come into the kitchen? We can talk more there,”

“That’s the problem, Bucky. I can’t move from here,”

“What do you mean you can’t move?”

“I’m stuck in the bathroom, by the shower,”

Bucky realizes that this is where Steve must have died, after Pierce shot him. Dragged himself into the tub, and simply waited. He fights the panic rising in his chest.

“That’s alright,” Bucky plasters a smile onto his face. “We can talk here,”

He climbs into the tub across Steve, regaling him of the adventure in the bunker. Steve covers his mouth when Bucky reveals that he’s killed Pierce, but doesn’t say a word. They sit there for hours, Bucky speaking more freely than he has in his life. He tells Steve about his childhood, his father’s role in the army, how he ran away because he had something to prove and ran away again when he had the chance.

“You’re no coward, Bucky. You’re the bravest man I know,” Steve squeezes his hand, doesn’t move it afterwards.

They sit in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. Bucky wishes he could stretch the time forever.

“I’m glad I met you, Steve. I don’t think I’d be alright if I hadn’t,”

Steve pulls Bucky in for a hug with surprising strength. After having his hands pass through Steve’s body, it’s foreign to feel warm flesh. Bucky clings tightly, feeling the ribs under Steve’s thin shirt.

Bucky pulls back first, watches Steve stare at his mouth. Their noses bump, and Steve’s long lashes fan rapidly as he begins to say something.

“Thank you,” The quietest apology, with Steve’s last breath. Bucky holds him and watches him, sees Steve’s pink lips move and face twitch. And then, a gunshot rings out and Steve simply vanishes.

Bucky sits in the tub, alone, arms outstretched. He’s holding nothing, fingers curled around the empty air where Steve used to be.

.

They make a grave by Ms. Schmidt’s garden patch, right next to her petunias. Bucky tucks the lone photograph of an unsmiling Steve with his mother into a tin box. He kisses the crinkled paper, lays it right next to his Marvin Gaye album. With a small shovel, him and Sam pour dirt over the box, covering the grave with fresh flowers they’d cut.

Ms. Schmidt hobbles over, thumbing her rosary. The other inhabitants of the apartment come and go, paying their respects to the tiny grave and offering their condolences to Bucky. The couple in 76A hug him outright, and the caretaker dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“You gonna be okay?” Natasha presses her shoulder against his own.

“Yeah,” Tears sting at the corners of his eyes. After everyone leaves, Ms. Schmidt invites them all in for a cup of tea. Sam refuses, going for his weekly check up at the hospital.

“You did the right thing by letting him go, James. It takes a lot of courage to leave the ones you love,”

She pours the hot tea into the bone china cup. Bucky swallows it, not caring if the drink burns his tongue. Although Natasha and Ms. Schmidt make small talk, Bucky can only chew his biscuit until Natasha says it’s time to leave.

As he turns the key, Natasha holds his arm as they walk through the empty apartment. They pass the couch, where he had all those nightmares, where Steve watched over him. The kitchen, with the brown sugar long swept up and cleaned. The bedroom, the linen closet. Bucky avoids the washroom altogether, only waiting until Natasha leaves to step into the tub.

He sits there for hours, hoping and praying for Steve to show up. When it’s clear that Steve is really, truly gone, Bucky sits on his couch and stares at the splotches on the wallpaper. The flowers repeat endlessly, and for the first time in his life, he is no longer afraid.

.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 1k story about having a ghost roommate. Somehow it turned into this monster fic with character study, backstory, and a whole lot of Marvin Gaye. Oops.
> 
> This is my first fic, so please leave constructive criticism. I'd love to hear what you guys think.
> 
> Also, Happy Halloween!


End file.
